


Twist Tie

by provocative_envy



Series: Chaos Theory [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Casual Sex, Developing Relationship, F/M, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Light Angst, Miscommunication, Romance, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 01:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11726712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/pseuds/provocative_envy
Summary: Scabior didn't go to college, but he did go to a lot of collegeparties.This party is not a college party.





	Twist Tie

* * *

It all starts at— 

Well. 

No. 

It doesn't start, because it's not a relationship, and it's not important, and it's barely even a  _thing,_ honestly, just another pretty girl's number in his phone with a DTF asterisk and, like, what the fuck ever, he's not emotionally compromised, there's just a lot of lacy polka dot underwear piling up in his laundry hamper and, like, he  _has a laundry hamper now,_ and—he didn't really  _sign up_  for that? 

So.  

It doesn't start. At all. Ever.  

It just kind of... _continues_ _,_ regardless. 

 

* * *

 

(2:21 pm)  ** _what do u do w/ ur girl during shark week_**  

(2:22 pm)  ** _like_** ** _i_** ** _kno_** ** _shark week is a_** ** _#_** ** _blessin_** ** _g_** ** _or w/e_** ** _but_**  

(2:24 pm)  ** _ew_**  

(2:25 pm) isn't that over? 

(2:26 pm) or is my dvr fucking up again 

(2:26 pm) fuckinf 

(2:26 pm) fuck comcast  

(2:26 pm) fuck them so fucking hard 

(2:27 pm) seriously like im the fucking criminal here what's their fucking PROBLEM 

(2:27 pm)  ** _????_**  

(2:27 pm)  ** _how do u_** ** _kno_** ** _that_**  

(2:28 pm)  ** _did she tell u_**  

(2:28 pm)  ** _how do u 2 even_** ** _kno_** ** _each other_**  

(2:29 pm)  ** _oh god_**  

(2:29 pm)  ** _stage 5 clinger???????_**  

(2:29 pm)  ** _did she add u on_** ** _faceb0ok_**  

(2:30 pm) who? 

(2:31 pm) what the fuck are you talking about 

(2:33 pm)  ** _ngl that_** ** _wld_** ** _be a RELIEF man_**  

(2:34 pm)  ** _kinda been looking 4 a reason to bail_**  

(2:35 pm) ….... 

(2:36 pm) wait 

(2:38 pm) discovery channel shark week  

(2:39 pm) or 

(2:44 pm)  ** _wut_** ** _is wrong w/ u_**  

(2:46 pm)  ** _like_**  

(2:48 pm)  ** _why r u so old_**  

 

* * *

 

Scabior didn't go to college, but he  _did_  go to a lot of college  _parties_. 

The party they're at is not a college party. 

The party they're at is a  _high school_  party, and not even, like, a regular high school party. It's the kind of high school party Scabior would have never been invited to when he'd actually been in high school, because he was basically just an unapologetic burnout with a lot of unapologetic burnout friends, all dirty flannels and scratched up skateboards and shitty,  _shitty_ weed, and they definitely didn't belong in marble-floored suburban palaces with sparkling tear-shaped swimming pools and whole fucking rooms with weirdly specific purposes—there's a fucking miniature movie theater upstairs, what the fuck—but whatever, he figures it's cool, mostly, since Greyback's managed to get the band back together and Mulciber's managed to get them a semi-real gig and at least  _some_ of the girls here were probably eighteen, right? 

Dolohov disagrees. 

Dolohov's the fucking black hole where fun goes to fucking die. 

"You can't  _stage dive_  without a  _stage_ ," Dolohov sighs, and he sounds really long-suffering about it, like this a conversation they've had a bunch of times before. 

Scabior squeezes a watermelon Jell-O shot into his mouth. "I just did, though. Twice." 

Dolohov carefully pulls the cork out of a magnum bottle of Grey Goose. "I'm going to  _laugh_ when you break your neck." He pauses. "In Russian. I'm going to laugh in Russian." 

"No, you're not." 

"Yes, I am." 

"No, you're going to, like, nurse me back to health and force feed me those adorable little dumpling things and—" 

"Fuck you, you don't deserve my grandmother's pelmeni." Dolohov takes a long swig of vodka straight from the bottle, already starting to walk backwards out of the kitchen, and then yells, "Ask for ID before you stick your dick in anything!" 

Scabior grins, reaching for another Jell-O shot. They're lined up on a shiny silver serving tray like stupid expensive room service, and he idly wonders if they were even made with Jell-O. Maybe Whole Foods sells some, like, organic all-natural harvested-from-the-unplumbed-depths-of-the-rainforest version of Jell-O that tastes exactly the same but costs exactly five times as much. Riddle would probably know. Riddle fucking loves Whole Foods. 

"Hey! You! In the—in the plaid! We need a fourth!"  

Scabior slowly turns around, reasonably sure that whoever's shouting is shouting at  _him_ —there's a really tragic shortage of plaid at this particular party—but then he's freezing, immediately squeezing a third Jell-O shot into his mouth, bypassing his tongue altogether, and his gag reflex is kicking in and his eyes are watering and he's coughing up what feels like most of a lung and— 

A girl. 

It's a girl. 

A girl with copper-red hair, thick and shiny in a wave down to the middle of her back, and a barely-there summer tan that can't quite cover the freckles on her nose, her cheeks, the tops of her bare shoulders. She's—cute. The kind of pretty that's friendly and approachable and, like, destined to meet her soulmate in a dog park. Low-maintenance. She's wearing tiny denim cut-offs and cherry red Chucks. Her eyes are a bright, vibrant brown, and the softness of her face—the  _delicacy_ of her features—it's all offset by the unexpectedly smug slant of her smile. 

"Well?" she drawls, holding up a ping pong ball and a half-empty bottle of Corona. "You coming?" 

He audibly swallows. "Uh," he says, ignoring the sugar-spiked splash of vodka burning the back of his throat. "Yeah? Yes?" 

She snorts, looking kind of impressively unimpressed. "College rules, okay? Hurry up." 

He tilts his head to the side as he watches her leave. He should probably ask her how old she is, but, like—be smoother about it? Carding hook-ups is the kind of thing only Dolohov can get away with because Dolohov is, like, six-foot-infinity and built like a brick shithouse and also has a gravelly mobster accent, a closet full of designer leather jackets, and a really transparent propensity to brood in the shadows with his neverending well of man-pain. 

Dolohov's a dick, what the fuck ever.  

The  _point_ , though. The point is that Scabior doesn't usually have to worry about being smooth. His standards aren't that high. This is uncharted territory. 

"Just so you know," he finally calls out, swiping one last Jell-O shot off the tray before he follows the girl into the dining room, "I'm, like,  _hella good_  at beer pong. Like—trophies. I have trophies." 

"Bullshit you do," a new guy retorts, and—okay, whoa, there are  _two_ new guys. Twins. Identical redheaded twins.  

They're standing behind the far side of the table next to a stack of candy-red Solo cups, and they're smirking at Scabior like they know something he doesn't, which feels a little unfair. They have on matching Maryland t-shirts. They probably know  _lots_ of shit Scabior doesn't.  

"Uh," Scabior says, puffing his cheeks out. "Wow, it's like—double vision." 

The guy who'd already spoken pokes his tongue out of his mouth. "Hey, Fred, what was that?" 

"Gosh, George, was it a  _totally original joke_  that we've  _never_ _fucking_ _heard before?_ " 

"Totally original," George confirms. 

"Never fucking heard it before." 

"Truly, incredibly unique—" 

The girl—their sister? Redheads were, like,  _rare_ , right?—cuts the twins off with a good-natured scoff. "And you guys wonder why Mom likes Percy better," she says, pouring the rest of her Corona into a cup and placing it at the top of a pyramid formation. She looks up at Scabior. "What's your name?" 

He scratches at the scruff on his chin. "Scabior." 

"Isn't that an STD?" Fred asks, kind of doubtfully. 

George's whole fucking face twitches, but all he gurgles in response is, "Teams?" 

The girl's name is Ginny Weasley, Scabior discovers halfway through their first game, and the twins are definitely her older brothers. They're also all muchbetter at beer pong than Scabior is, like,  _collectively_ , and way, way,  _way_ more competitive. They keep score, for example. And they criticize his technique, and they cite an actual fucking rule book when an argument about foot spacing breaks out, and none of them steal gulps of each other's drinks in between turns because it's a "direct violation of the spirit of the  _game_ , Herpes". 

Scabior is on Ginny's team. 

They lose, twice, before the twins leave to go harass a horde of immaculately-dressed teenagers doing, like, explicitly R-rated body shots in the living room, and then Ginny is smirking at him and Scabior is agreeing to some kind of tiebreaker shootout that he's mostly sure she's  _invented_  just so she can  _win_ at something and— 

"I don't have herpes," he informs her, chugging the rest of a beer, slamming the bottle onto the table, and politely burping into his forearm. 

Ginny furrows her brow, already dropping a ping pong ball into her water cup and shaking out her wrist. "Okay?" 

"I just," he says, gesturing expansively towards his crotch, "thought you should, like, know. Or whatever. No herpes." 

She squints at the lone red cup sitting on his side of the table. "You thought I should, like, know, or whatever," she repeats, drawing her arm back. "That's optimistic of you." 

She takes her shot before he can reply. 

She misses by less than an inch. 

"Oh, come  _on_ ," she snaps, glaring at the wet spot where the ball had landed. "What the  _fuck_ _."_   

Scabior flashes her the grin that usually gets him punched in sports bars. "Sudden death, right?" he taunts. "That's what you said?" 

Her scowl turns mutinous as he lines up to take his shot, movements kind of exaggeratedly sarcastic, but then he's arching up onto his toes and launching his ball across the table and— 

It's, like, a slam dunk. 

"Fuckin' right, suck my  _dick,_ _"_ he bellows, probably unnecessarily, falling back on his heels and shooting a couple of finger-guns at Ginny. His balance is for shit. What the fuck ever. He's not embarrassed. "Nothing but fucking  _net."_  

Ginny arches a brow. 

Tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 

Offers him a slyly disarming smile as she toys with the rim of an empty beer bottle and rolls a ping pong ball around the palm of her other hand. 

"Okay," she says, and she's— 

Pretty. Still really, really pretty. Scabior feels justified in blanking out a little bit. "Wait, what?"  

"You told me to suck your dick," she says, casually, like she's giving him directions to the professionally decorated downstairs bathroom. "And I said okay."' 

He stares at her, actively beginning to suspect that he's having another acid flashback. There's an Eminem song blaring from the surround sound speakers that he can hear but not see. It's all very  _Veronica Mars_. 

"Wait, what?" he asks again.  

Ginny laughs, bright and loud and less mean-spirited than he probably deserves. And when she brushes past him to saunter into the kitchen, she smells like sea salt and limeade and the lotion he used to jerk off with when he was a teenager. It's kind of intoxicating. 

"So easy," she murmurs before vanishing around the corner.  

"Yeah," he agrees, a beat too late. He's not even bothering to pretend he's not trailing after her. "I'm really fucking easy." 

 

* * *

 

(10:22 am)  ** _shower sex_**  

(10:23 am)  ** _dangerous or awesome_**  

(10:30 am)  ** _??????????????????????_**  

(10:32 am)  ** _hurrry_** ** _up man this shits time_** ** _sensitiv e_**  

(10:34 am) i hate you a lot 

(10:35 am) i just had the morning after from fucking hell 

(10:35 am) and you're having shower sex  

(10:36 am)  ** _uhhhhh no im_**  

(10:36 am)  ** _MAYBE having shower sex idk yet like_**  

(10:37 am)  ** _cant_** ** _get a concussion w/ regular sex u_** ** _kno_**  

(10:38 am) i mean 

(10:38 am) YOU probably could 

(10:38 am)  ** _point_**  

(10:39 am) but im more interested in where you found a girl willing to actually set foot in your shower 

(10:39 am)  ** _lol yeah like who knew red hair dye would stain so hard_**  

(10:40 am) everyone knew that 

(10:41 am)  ** _wut_**  

(10:42 am)  ** _????_**  

(10:45 am) how do you get laid 

(10:45 am) so regularly 

(10:45 am) i'm genuinely curious  

(10:49 am)  ** _fuck u my dick is_** ** _spectacular_**  

(10:53 am) don't have shower sex you'll die 

(11:15 am)  ** _we had shower sex_**  

(11:16 am)  ** _and_** ** _didnt_** ** _die_**  

(11:20 am)  ** _soccer players r_** ** _bendy_**  

(11:30 am)  ** _anyway_**  

(11:30 am)  ** _breakfast hot dogs_**  

(11:30 am)  ** _dangerous or awesome_**  

(11:34 am)  ** _???????????_**  

(11:52 am) "breakfast hot dogs" 

(11:53 am) there is no way your dick is that spectacular what the fuck 

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, he's skulking around the margarita tent at a seedy outdoor music festival in Virginia, shirt off, lips chapped, sun beating down on the back of his neck. Everything smells a little sour, a little sticky, a little sweet; like beer and weed and sweat and sunscreen.  

"Scabior?" he hears someone say. 

It takes him a minute to register that he isn't alone anymore. And then he's looking down, and he's taking in  _a lot_ of bare, freckled skin, and flowing red hair, and the same pair of tiny denim cutoffs that had spent a night on his bedroom floor—the same pair of tiny denim cutoffs that Ginny Weasley had been wearing the last time he'd seen her. When she'd been leaving his apartment. After scrawling her number in surprisingly messy handwriting on the bottom of a grease splattered Jack in the Box receipt. 

He hadn't called her.  

He hadn't even considered calling her. 

He can't remember why right now.  

"Uh," he says, scratching at his jaw. There's a shitty stoner reggae band playing on a nearby side stage, a bunch of lanky fucking white dudes in fake Rasta gear who Scabior would've probably really enjoyed beating up in high school. "Hey?" 

Ginny raises an eyebrow, taking a dainty sip of her beer. "Hey. Clean your bathroom yet?" 

He shrugs. "Nah. Still a crime scene." 

She presses her lips together like she's suppressing one of those wide, happy, effortlessly wicked smiles he'd only gotten a brief glimpse of before. He—doesn't know what to do with that. It's really fucking hot out. He's kind of lightheaded.  

"So," she says, gaze raking over his chest, his arms, the hollow cut of his pelvis and the dumb fucking Marvin the Martian tattoo on his ribs, and she has on a burgundy string bikini top and not much else and it's the hugest fucking tease, honestly, how she's looking at him. That she's looking at all. 

He rocks back on his heels. "So." 

Ginny nods her head towards the parking lot. "You wanna?" 

He shuts one eye and grins. "That's usually my line." 

"Oh?" she teases, taking a decisive step forward. "Does it ever work?" 

He pointedly doesn't think very hard about how fucking easy it is to reach out, to tangle their fingers together, to pull her closer and let his free hand drift down the curve of her waist and drag his thumb along the zipper of her shorts— 

"Yeah," he says, like he's sharing a secret. "It works." 

 

* * *

 

(3:23 pm)  ** _so like_**  

(3:23 pm)  ** _how many times is too many times_**  

(3:36 pm) ????? 

(3:37 pm) that's disturbingly vague 

(3:37 pm) what the fuck did you do 

(3:39 pm)  ** _its_** ** _more like_**  

(3:39 pm)  ** _WHO did I do_**  

(3:40 pm)  ** _more than once_**  

(3:41 pm)  ** _...more than twice_**  

(3:42 pm)  ** _like_** ** _whats_** ** _the cut off for hit it and quit it_**  

(3:43 pm) oh my god 

(3:45 pm)  ** _im just wondering dude_** ** _dont_** ** _make it weird_**  

(3:45 pm)  ** _like_**  

(3:46 pm)  ** _ur like a million years old and no ones locked that down_**  

(3:47 pm)  ** _ur everything_** ** _i_** ** _aspiire_** ** _to be_**  

(3:47 pm)  ** _and more!!!!!111!_**  

(3:49 pm) i'm 9 months older than you 

(3:52 pm)  ** _physically maybe_**  

(3:55 pm) ???????????????????????????? 

(5:18 pm)  ** _did u kno u can clean like literally anything w/ baking soda_**  

(5:18 pm)  ** _AND u put that shit in cookies_**  

(5:20 pm)  ** _baking soda is the best_**  

(5:22 pm) want some advice 

(5:24 pm)  ** _lay it on me ant man_**  

(5:25 pm) holy shit stop calling me that 

(5:28 pm)  ** _uh_**  

(5:28 pm)  ** _no_**  

(5:28 pm)  ** _??????_**  

(5:30 pm) whatever 

(5:31 pm) fuck you 

(5:33 pm) have fun being married 

 

* * *

 

The day before Halloween, Scabior winds up volunteering for a drop-off at an address that's  _technically_  in Charlottesville.  

It isn't a big deal. He's, like, a model employee. Professional as shit. He's punctual and he's organized and he's friendly enough that he has a  _way_ better reputation than Dolohov does with all the frat bros Riddle's so obsessed with recruiting. Scabior's customer service skills are fucking legendary. He's got this. 

When he pulls into the empty 7-Eleven parking lot, the street lights are flickering. It's—quiet. Dark. A red neon sign for Bud Light is maybe taunting him from where it's perched above the store's sliding glass doors. Loose gravel rattles and pings against the underbelly of his truck as he eases the key out of the ignition. 

He glances at the clock on the dash. 

He's, like,  _kind of_  early.  

Marginally. Give or take a few minutes. Hours. What the fuck ever, he didn't hit traffic. He has  _time_  to kill, is the point. 

Ginny picks up on the third ring. "Hello?" 

"Uh," he says, drumming his fingers against his steering wheel. "Hey?" 

"Hey." A door slams. "What's up?" 

"You busy?" he asks instead of answering her directly. He doesn't know what's up. There's a strange, almost ominous electricity buzzing right beneath the surface of his skin, like he's nervous—but that doesn't really make any sense. He has nothing to fucking be nervous about.  

"Um, no," she hedges. "Why?" 

"I'm, uh, here. In town. Nearby. Where you are." 

There's a long stretch of silence. "Is this a  _booty call?_ " 

He jingles his keys. "Yeah," he lies.  

"Okay," she says, sounding bemused. "I just got out of practice, so—" 

"I can pick you up," he interrupts, a hazy almost-plan beginning to percolate. "Just, like. Text me the address." 

"Okay," she says again, huffing out what he thinks might be a laugh. "I mean, my roommates aren't here, but...I guess we can go somewhere else?" 

Scabior winces and fiddles with the lock on his door. Up. Down. Up. Down. He isn't totally sure what to call, like, the polar fucking opposite of his A game, but he  _is_ totally sure that he's bringing the hell out of it.  

Twenty minutes later, he's changed his radio presets, and hidden his duffel bag full of weed, and carefully placed one of those cylindrical little air freshener things in the center console cup holder. The inside of his truck now smells like pineapples. There's a brand-new strip of condoms in the glovebox. He's  _fine_. 

"I have a game in D.C. this weekend," Ginny says when she climbs into the passenger seat. She has on an oversized grey sweatshirt and a pair of stretchy black leggings. Her hair's slightly damp, like she'd just gotten out of the shower, and her expression, when she turns to look at him, is fond, if not a little exasperated. "Which you know. Because I told you. You didn't have to drive two and a half hours—" 

"Is there, like, a hill nearby?" 

She blinks. "What?" 

He drives them to a big grassy park tucked between two luxury apartment complexes; there's a really elaborately engineered playground surrounded by what looks like a fucking acre of that spongy fake asphalt shit, and a gently sloping hill framed by a picturesque line of quivering autumn-colored trees. It's...a lot. 

"Is that—is that  _ice?_ " Ginny asks, peering into the back of his truck. 

Scabior grins. "Ever been ice blocking?" 

 

* * *

 

(9:22 pm) answer your phone 

(9:24 pm) scabior 

(9:27 pm) what the fuck 

(9:30 pm) where are you 

(9:44 pm) riddle left a google search for tribal ink up on his ipad 

(9:50 pm) SCABIOR 

(9:55 pm) what are you even doing  

(9:55 pm) aren't you just there for a drop off 

(10:02 pm) oh 

(10:03 pm) OH 

(10:11 pm) "brooklyn is NOT gentrified" 

(10:12 pm) why the fuck am i here listening to this bullshit while youre getting your dick sucked  

(10:13 pm) fuck you 

(10:13 pm) fuck you so hard 

(10:19 pm) quick question 

(10:19 pm) do you think anyone would even report riddle missing 

(10:20 pm) if something were to happen 

(10:25 pm) GLOVE UP YOU ARENT READY TO BE A DAD 

 

* * *

 

"So," Ginny says. She's still perched on the edge of her ice block, smile wide and hair windswept and hands grass-stained. "What did you  _really_  drive all the way out here for?" 

"Uh," Scabior replies dumbly. "Work? Work—stuff?" 

She yawns into her fist, raising her eyebrows like she doesn't believe him. "You don't have to make excuses," she says. "Especially to yourself. That's stupid." 

And she is...really, really wrong about that, Scabior thinks, kind of inanely. "Stupid," he echoes. "Right." 

She shrugs. "I know what I want. I'm not going to feel bad about it. You shouldn't, either." 

Scabior looks at her askance. He wonders what it would be like, to just— _say_ shit like that. To mean it. To  _know_ it, really know it, because he has trouble deciding between two different breakfast burritos most mornings; he can't fucking fathom the quiet, simplistic  _confidence_  required to live his life like he's got all the cheat codes necessary to succeed. 

“I mean, sure, yeah,” he says, kicking at the ice block. A clump of mud is stuck to the corner. “Like, I have a least favorite flavor of Snapple.” 

She's silent for a minute, then says, apropos of fucking nothing, "My last boyfriend's dead mom had red hair." 

Scabior wrinkles his nose. "Shit," he says, with feeling. 

Ginny's lips twitch. "Yeah." 

He cracks his knuckles, fiddling with the beat-up leather cuff on his wrist. "I mean...my dead mom's hair wasn't red. So." 

Ginny snorts, and then giggles, and then tilts her head all the way back, exposing the long line of her throat and the deceptively fragile wings of her collarbones and the tiny garnet pendant necklace he's never seen her take off. She's happy, he thinks. In general, yeah, but also right now, currently, in this moment.  

He'd done that. 

And it's a dumb fucking thing to be so  _struck_ by, probably—he hadn't really said anything particularly earth-shattering—but there's a forthrightness to Ginny, an uncomfortably compelling lack of artifice, that he wishes he knew how to deal with a little better. She doesn't say things she doesn't mean. She doesn't  _do_ things she doesn't mean.  

"Thanks for this," she says, leaning into his side. He drapes an arm over her shoulders and tries to keep his breathing in check. He feels seventeen again, trapped and desperate and running almost entirely on misplaced reserves of adrenaline. She's a lot fucking warmer than six-months in juvie had ever been. "It was a good surprise." 

Scabior licks his lips, kind of startled, maybe, by how much he has to say to her. 

By how badly he wants to say it.  

 

* * *

 

(6:01 pm)  ** _whats_** ** _a good xmas present_**  

(6:03 pm) for who 

(6:03 pm)  ** _for like_**  

(6:03 pm)  ** _idk_**  

(6:04 pm)  ** _my not_** ** _girlfriend_**  

(6:06 pm) jesus christ 

(6:07 pm)  ** _shes_** ** _a good bro shut up_**  

(6:08 pm) do you like 

(6:08 pm) consciously think this shit before you send it to me 

(6:09 pm)  ** _ANT MAN_**  

(6:09 pm)  ** _IM IN A CANDLE STORE IDK WTF IM DOING_**  

(6:10 pm)  ** _!!!!!!!!!11111111111111!!!!!!!!!!13_**  

(6:10 pm)  ** _I LET U MAKE FUCKING_**  

(6:11 pm)  ** _BEET SOUP OR W/E THE FUCK_**  

(6:11 pm)  ** _IN MY KITCHEN_**  

(6:11 pm)  ** _THAT SHIT BETWEEN THE TILES IS STILL PINK AS HELL AND_** ** _ITS_** ** _ALL_** ** _UR FAULT_**  

(6:13 pm) okay first of all 

(6:13 pm) that soup is called borscht  

(6:14 pm) and its fucking delicious 

(6:15 pm) second 

(6:15 pm) that shit between the tiles is called grout 

(6:15 pm) third 

(6:15 pm) it's not my fault you've never actually attempted to clean your counters 

(6:16 pm) if you're still fucking your not girlfriend after four months though you could probably buy her lingerie and be safe 

(6:17 pm) NOT ONLINE 

(6:17 pm) GO TO A REAL STORE 

(6:17 pm) AND ASK THE OLDEST WOMAN THERE TO HELP YOU FIND SOMETHING  

(6:19 pm)  ** _um_**  

(6:19 pm)  ** _ok_**  

(6:20 pm)  ** _idk if_** ** _shes_** ** _like_**  

(6:20 pm)  ** _a lingerie girl tho_**  

(6:20 pm)  ** _she has a lot of sports bras_**  

(6:22 pm) wow 

(6:23 pm)  ** _????????_**  

(6:24 pm) nah 

(6:25 pm) im not gonna be the one to tell you  

(6:27 pm)  ** _tell me wut_**  

(6:30 pm)  ** _yo_**  

(6:33 pm)  ** _ANT MAN_**  

(6:40 pm)  ** _fuck u_**  

(6:44 pm)  ** _im_** ** _gonna buy her one of those hats u can drink beer out of if u dont_** ** _asnwer_**  

(6:52 pm)  ** _gdi_**  

(6:55 pm)  ** _do we need 2 get u a life alert or_** ** _smthng_**  

(6:55 pm) SAY THAT TO MY FUCKING FACE SCABIOR 

 

* * *

 

In January, Scabior wakes up to a burst of frigid cold air on his legs. 

His bare legs. 

His bare everything, actually, because he's fucking  _naked_  and he's fucking  _cold_  and this is  _not_ the morning blowjob he'd been looking forward to. 

"Oh, my  _god,_  get up, get up, get up!" Ginny's hissing, hitting him in the face with last night's boxer briefs and a suspiciously stained black t-shirt. She's already pulled on her own underwear, white cotton boy shorts covered in miniature pink strawberries, and is now struggling to untwist the straps of a dark purple bra. "Scabior! _"_  

Scabior scrubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. " _Why,_ " he whines, lifting his hips to tug his boxers up and over his morning wood. He flops backwards when he's done. "It's so  _early._ " 

"It's nine-thirty," Ginny snaps, kind of judgmentally, even though Scabior knows for a fact that she's a perpetual fucking trainwreck before noon. "And George called, my mom's literally—" 

There's the telltale squeak of the front door unlocking, followed by the faint rustle of a plastic grocery bag being put down, and then a Southern-accented female voice is chirping, "Ginny! Ginny?"  

Ginny goes almost comically still, eyes wide and mouth open and expression frozen in a weirdly endearing amalgam of dread, annoyance, and resignation—but then she's scrambling for a pair of yoga pants and a wrinkled white undershirt that he's pretty sure is  _his,_ quickly tying her hair up in a lumpy, slightly lopsided ponytail, and there are footsteps echoing from the hallway, brisk and efficient, and barely ten seconds have gone by, probably, but— 

The bedroom door swings open. 

A short, middle-aged woman with very familiar red hair and a Maryland sweatshirt appears. 

She screams. 

 

* * *

 

(9:50 am)  ** _yo_** ** _if u_** ** _dont_** ** _hear from me in like an hour_**  

(9:50 am)  ** _just_** ** _kno_** ** _ur_** ** _my favorite bro_**  

(9:51 am)  ** _and_** ** _u_**   ** _can totally have all my shit_**  

(9:51 am)  ** _even that copy of the notebook u think_** ** _i_** ** _never see u trying 2_** ** _steal_**  

(9:51 am)  ** _b_** ** _ut_** ** _don_** ** _t_** ** _cremate me its creepy ok_**  

(9:52 am)  ** _< 3_** 

(10:11 am) what the fuck is wrong with you 

 

* * *

 

Breakfast is a fucking nightmare. 

"So," Mrs. Weasley says, stabbing her fork into a pile of scrambled eggs. Ginny had helped her cook, sort of, which under normal circumstances Scabior would've given her endless shit for—she burned  _microwave popcorn_  on a regular fucking basis—but the disapproving scowl on Mrs. Weasley's face has him mostly frozen in fear, so. "Where are you from, Scabior?" 

He shifts in his seat. "Uh. Arlington." 

Her brow furrows. "No, no, I meant—where are you  _from?_ " 

"Mom," Ginny interjects, uncharacteristically sharp.  

"What?" Mrs. Weasley asks, clutching her coffee mug with both hands. Her knuckles are white. "It's just a  _question,_ sweetheart _,_ honestly, am I not allowed to be curious about your—about your—about your, ah, your Scabior?" 

Scabior prods at a sausage link with his butter knife. His stomach is gurgling with something hot and harsh and unpleasantly acidic, and the glare Ginny's leveling at her mother isn't really making him feel any better. Still, Mrs. Weasley's obvious discomfort—her obvious  _disdain_ —for his name and his hair and his not-relationship with Ginny—it's giving him the weirdest sense of  _determination_ _,_ almost,the kind of determination that he usually associates with the high school kids on the news who have perfect SAT scores and Ivy League recruitment letters in their back pockets and parents who probably, like, remembered their birthdays.

What the fuck ever.

Scabior just  _really_  wants to prove Ginny's mom wrong, is the point.

It's kind of unfortunate that he doesn't have a clue  _how_  to, though. 

 

* * *

 

(2:10 am)  ** _remember when we used to think riddle was like_**  

(2:11 am)  ** _cool or w/e_**  

(2:13 am) no 

(2:15 am) maybe 

(2:15 am) we were both shitshows when we met riddle our judgment was cloudy 

(2:20 am) why 

(2:22 am)  ** _idk_**  

(2:25 am)  ** _just_**  

(2:40 am) just what 

(2:41 am) you've been typing and deleting like a douche for 15 minutes 

(2:43 am)  ** _i_** ** _thought_** ** _i_** ** _didnt_** ** _have a choice before_**  

(2:43 am)  ** _u kno_**  

(2:44 am) yeah 

(2:44 am) i know 

(2:50 am)  ** _its_** ** _pretty shitty_**  

(2:51 am) ? 

(2:55 am)  ** _idk_**  

(2:56 am)  ** _like_** ** _i_** ** _think_** ** _i_** ** _did_**  

(2:56 am)  ** _have a choice_** ** _i_** ** _mean_**  

(2:59 am)  ** _and_** ** _thats_**  

(3:00 am) shitty 

(3:02 am) yeah 

(3:19 am)  ** _w/e_**  

(3:35 am) hey im making pelmeni tomorrow 

(3:37 am)  ** _rly_**  

(3:37 am) yeah 

(3:38 am) and if you promise not to light incense in my bathroom again you can come over and help 

(3:40 am)  ** _fuck off it was for LUCK_**  

(3:41 am)  ** _i_** ** _was_** ** _tyring_** ** _to be a good bro_**  

(3:42 am)  ** _but ok_**  

(3:44 am)  ** _dibs on the rolling pin motherfucker_**  

 

* * *

 

Ginny goes to South Carolina for spring break. 

Scabior makes a point of not following her—of telling her that he has other plans—but in the end, it doesn't even matter because the universe is literally out to fuck him, specifically, personally, and the gig that Mulciber scrounges up for the band to play is the same week-long Myrtle Beach fucking free-for-all that Ginny's at. 

It's shitty. 

It's really fucking shitty. 

There's this bizarre tension between them now that Scabior can logically accept is his own fucking fault because he can't seem to stop thinking about how it's almost summer; can't seem to stop thinking about what that  _means._ Ginny isn't going to be a semi-long distance, mostly abstract not-girlfriend fantasy anymore, a twice a month booty call who texts him when she wakes up too early and when she's stuck in the front row of a lecture she hates and when she's warming up before away games and he really—he really doesn't need to know, is the thing, about all the single, carefree, mega-hot college girl shit she's going to get up to once she's home. 

Which is why— 

He's here, on a palatial wraparound deck, watching Ginny sink the winning shot in a game of beer pong he'd only agreed to play to make her smile, and he's fucking miserable.  

"—kind of a sore loser," Ginny's teasing him. 

He shrugs, trying to be subtle about dislodging her from his arm. "And yet...you're into me anyway." 

She rolls her eyes. "You're a sure thing, aren't you?" 

The beach is like a postcard in the moonlight, tall grass and white sand and gently lapping waves, and it's romantic, like one of those rom-coms Dolohov's always watching that he pretends are all Scabior's fault, but Ginny—Scabior's  _thing_  with Ginny—it isn't like that, it isn't romantic, and it doesn't matter how much he wants to kiss her to a soundtrack of, like, John Mayer anthems, because that isn't what they do. It isn't. 

He grits his teeth. "I don't know, she's alright," he retorts, jerking his chin at a brunette on the far side of the deck. "Maybe I'll go home with her. Maybe I'm not such a  _sure thing_  for you, Ginny, ever think about that?" 

And one of Ginny's most defining traits—one of the many defining traits he wishes he weren't so fucking  _aware_ of, painfully and pitifully—is that she's absolutely terrible at hiding her feelings. At  _pretending._  She's confident and she's expressive and she allows herself to  _feel._ To be angry, to be sad, to be happy. She never second-guesses her own emotions, never requires objective third-party verification or, like, a notarized dossier of hard evidence to prove that they're real, that they're safe, that they're  _valid._ It's that more than anything else about her—more than the  _college_  thing, more than the  _six older brothers_  thing, more than the  _Sporty Spice Homecoming Queen_ thing—that's always kind of intimidated him.  

Because Ginny likes herself. She likes herself enough to trust her instincts and follow her gut and never wonder if she's getting it all wrong. 

So. 

So, when she doesn't immediately respond, when she doesn't rise to the grade-a fucking bait he's just handed her, when she doesn't— _react,_  really, not verbally, at least— 

He swallows. 

He glances down.  

And he meets her eyes and he tightens his grip on his beer and he kind of wants to throw up, suddenly, kind of wants to find Dolohov and beg for a ride home and a gallon of shitty vodka and also a fucking time machine, because Ginny— 

She looks  _hurt_. 

She looks hurt, and she looks mad, and she looks a little like he's finally managed to surprise her, and it's— 

It's really fucking horrible.  

 

* * *

 

(3:12 am)  ** _so like_**  

(3:12 am)  ** _hypothetical_** ** _scenrio_**  

(3:13 am)  ** _ur fucking this girl for like........awhile or w/e_**  

(3:14 am)  ** _months_**  

(3:16 am)  ** _8 months_**  

(3:16 am)  ** _8.5 months_**  

(3:17 am)  ** _somewhere around there_**  

(3:18 am)  ** _and it occurs to u in less than ideal circumstances that u hvnt_**  

(3:18 am)  ** _actually fucked any1 BUT this girl in those 8.75 months_**  

(3:19 am)  ** _like we're_** ** _takling_** ** _completely accidental monogamy bro_**  

(3:20 am)  ** _like.......not even a bathroom handy at one of those mad sketchy_** ** _russian_** ** _restraunts_** ** _ur always blackmailing me into going_** ** _to_** ** _w/u_**  

(3:21 am)  ** _so like_**  

(3:24 am)  ** _hypothetically_**  

(3:26 am)  ** _in this particular_** ** _sitch_**  

(3:28 am)  ** _would being all "hey maybe im gonna pick up that significantly less hot girl over there instead of going home w/ u tonight" at a party be a dick move or nah_**  

(3:29 am)  ** _like 8.83 months of accidental monogamy is_** ** _lik.e_**  

(3:29 am)  ** _not a real thing u_** ** _kno_**  

(3:30 am)  ** _its_** ** _an accident_**  

(3:35 am)  ** _hypothetically_**  

(3:49 am)  ** _like_** ** _whos_** ** _the asshole here ant man_** ** _bc_** ** _im PRETTY SURE_** ** _its_** ** _not me u_** ** _kno_**  

(3:55 am)  ** _r u sleeping_**  

(3:57 am)  ** _wtf_**  

(4:00 am)  ** _did u get laid finally_**  

(4:02 am)  ** _r u done being all emo uve been gross for like_**  

(4:02 am)  ** _a million years_**  

(4:05 am)  ** _or 9 months w/e idk ur deal_**  

(9:19 am) cho says you're definitely the asshole in this totally hypothetical scenario 

(9:21 am) plot twist though NO ONE IS SHOCKED 

(9:30 am)  ** _ok u kno wut_**  

(9:30 am)  ** _ur the real dick here_**  

(9:42 am)  ** _and who tf is cho_**  

(9:44 am)  ** _????????????????????_**  

 

* * *

 

The week before him and Dolohov are supposed to leave for Maine—and, what the fuck, they're  _summering_ in fucking  _Maine_ —Ginny shows up at Scabior's door with a pint of her mom's homemade strawberry ice cream and a sunny smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. 

"Is this a trap," he blurts out, scratching at his bare chest. He hadn't bothered with a shirt this morning; his plans for the day were kind of vaguely centered around moping, jerking off, and sniffing illicitly at the canister of Hawaiian Aloha Febreze Ginny had left on his bathroom counter. "Holy shit, is that  _break up ice cream?"_  

Ginny wrinkles her nose. "No? What are you—Jesus Christ, why is it so  _dark_  in here?" 

He squints. There isn't really an answer to that question that isn't, like, gratuitously pathetic. "Uh." 

"Whatever, get dressed, come on," she says, hauling open his freezer and wedging the ice cream in next to a mostly empty box of Hot Pockets. "My mom wants you to come to brunch." 

"Why?" he asks, a little bit mystified and a whole lot fucking whiny. "Doesn't she know we aren't—uh—doing... _that_  anymore?" 

Ginny slams his freezer door shut but doesn't turn around. "She thinks you'll get scurvy if she doesn't feed you."  

Scabior fiddles with the drawstring on his basketball shorts. "I mean," he says, stalling. "She's not  _wrong_." 

Ginny sniffs and reaches up to tighten her ponytail. She still isn't looking at him. The red, white, and black Soviet star magnet on his fridge can't possibly be that fucking interesting. "So, you're—you'll come? To brunch?" 

Scabior hesitates, which is probably pointless, but— 

He can already  _picture_  it. 

The slightly patchy lawn in the backyard will be freshly mowed, and the boxy little TV on the kitchen counter will be playing a  _Dr. Oz_  rerun. The twins will have their matching neon "Sun's Out, Guns Out" tank tops on, will be hoarding all the cold beer and ruffling the front of Ron's gross fucking hipster mullet while they bicker about insect repellent; and Ginny's dad will clap Scabior on the back, will start an awkward conversation about charcoal grills and the shit they put in energy drinks and whether or not the French version of Rosetta Stone will help him with his Creole, like Scabior has a fucking clue; and Ginny's mom will enthusiastically ply him with crispy plantain chips and jerk chicken omelets and scotch bonnet grits and Scabior will just keep drinking, trying not to get too  _comfortable_ , because he won't understand what the fuck he's doing there.  

He never understands what the fuck he's doing there. 

But he'll listen to the lion tamer brother's stories about all the crazy shit that goes down in the employee break room at the zoo and he'll let the brother with the super hot wife lecture him about irresponsible historical inaccuracy on the History Channel and he'll spread his legs a little wider whenever Ginny drops into his lap, will hold her hand and kiss her cheek and laugh at her running fucking commentary on the nerd brother's bowties and— 

Scabior  _really_  never understands what the fuck he's doing there. 

But he also kind of doesn't want to argue with Ginny about this, doesn't want to have to explain to her that hanging out with her family makes his chest fucking  _ache_ sometimes,doesn't want to have to acknowledge the leftover puddle of regret that's been sloshing around the pit of his stomach for fucking  _weeks_ now, so.  

So. 

"Yeah," he says, kind of quietly. "Yeah, I'll come to brunch." 

 

* * *

 

(9:11 pm) hey 

(9:15 pm) you packed yet 

(9:20 pm) ? 

(9:33 pm) come on man you have to bring more than like perpetual sadness and a shitty handle of evan williams 

(9:38 pm)  ** _no_** ** _i_** ** _don_** ** _t_**  

(9:39 pm) stop sulking 

(9:39 pm) pack swim trunks 

(9:40 pm) NOTHING WITH A POT LEAF MOTIF 

(9:44 pm)  ** _fuck u_**  

(9:53 pm)  ** _ginny_** ** _threw those out the last time she came over_**  

(9:53 pm) your not girlfriend ginny 

(9:55 pm) ? 

(9:59 pm)  ** _yeah_**  

(9:59 pm)  ** _my_**  

(10:03 pm)  ** _not_** ** _anything_** ** _i_** ** _guess_**  

(10:09 pm)  ** _w/e_**  

(10:10 pm) didn’t she take you to a family barbeque three days ago 

(10:11 pm)  ** _yeah but like_**  

(10:11 pm)  ** _that was psychological warfare u_** ** _kno_**  

(10:12 pm)  ** _like_**  

(10:13 pm)  ** _here, scabior, this is what_** ** _u could_** ** _have if u_** ** _werent_** ** _such a fuck up_**  

(10:14 pm)  ** _fucking_**  

(10:16 pm)  ** _ice cold revenge_**  

(10:19 pm) dude 

(10:20 pm) that's bleak 

(10:20 pm)  ** _and then she went and like_**  

(10:20 pm)  ** _left a bunch of her fuckign UNDERWEAR here_**  

(10:20 pm)  ** _and im like_**  

(10:24 pm)  ** _w/e_**  

(10:26 pm)  ** _im_** ** _over it_**  

(10:27 pm) are you fucking kidding me 

(10:27 pm)  ** _I_** ** _KNO_**  

(10:27 pm)  ** _LIKE_**  

(10:27 pm)  ** _SAVAGE AF RITE_**  

(10:29 pm) you're a moron 

(10:29 pm) like I want to help you 

(10:30 pm) but I'm not sure you can BE helped 

(10:34 pm)  ** _im getting u rogaine for ur bday_**  

(10:34 pm)  ** _xtra_** ** _strrenght_**  

(10:35 pm)  ** _u cryptic fucking asshole_**  

(10:42 pm) NOT CRYPTIC JUST SMARTER THAN YOU 

 

* * *

 

Maine is...weird. 

There are pine trees, tall and skinny and brown around the edges, and bone-dry heaps of driftwood scattered across the beach, clear blue skies and sailboats on the horizon and a vaguely timeless, vaguely  _hazy_  kind of inertia seeping through the sand and the sun and the monogrammed fucking hand towels in the Malfoys' guest house. It reminds Scabior of those nostalgia-porn late-eighties summer camp movies, telling ghost stories into a flashlight and crowding too many bunk beds into the cabins, a montage of burnt s'mores and faded green canoes and shitty boys-versus-girls midnight prank wars straight out of a  _Salute Your Shorts_  marathon. 

Scabior never actually went to summer camp. 

If he had, he wouldn't have been so fucking surprised by this bullshit fucking plot twist. 

By  _Ginny Weasley_ , standing on the other side of an enormous bonfire, warm yellow flames reflecting off the salt-stiff strands of her hair and turning it a gleaming vibrant red in the semidarkness. She's wearing a pair of white denim cutoffs and a threadbare crewneck sweater with the sleeves rolled up. She's barefoot. She's beautiful. She's alone. 

And it's kind of eerily reminiscent of the very first time he'd seen her, when he'd choked on a Jell-O shot and forgotten how to breathe and  _wanted_ , wanted so suddenly and so, so fiercely, fiercely enough that he hadn't even let himself recognize that was what had been happening. He'd wanted her, and he'd camouflaged that feeling with bad flirting and casual sex and that uniquely demoralizing air of resignation that had permeated most of his adult life. 

Scabior hardly ever got what he wanted. 

Except. 

Except he  _had_  gotten what he wanted, somehow, and he'd been buried six feet under so much fucking denial that he hadn't— 

"—you alright, man?" Dolohov is asking. 

"Yeah," Scabior starts to reply, but then stops. Ginny's gazing out at the water, arms folded loosely across her chest, and everything about the next few moments—it feels fucking  _important._  "No, actually, I'm—I'll be back. Later. Yeah. Uh. Later." 

He doesn't wait for Dolohov to respond. 

The trek around the bonfire feels like it takes both forever and hardly any time at all, and his palms are sweaty and his muscles are tense and his thoughts are jumbled.  

There's a pint of homemade strawberry ice cream sitting untouched in the back of his freezer. Two of his dresser drawers are full of polka-dotted underwear and brightly colored cotton gym shorts and stretchy little tank tops with built-in sports bras because Ginny is kind of hilariously fucking lazy in the mornings. He has a Swiffer in his coat closet, and a pile of muddy cleats next to his front door. His shower still isn't totally clean, but that's, like, a weekend project, probably. What the fuck ever. Ginny can be trusted to just shove a gallon of bleach at him when it gets out of control. 

Approaching her like this is a little surreal, though.  

Because he's thinking about what a sad sack Dolohov had been before Cho had reappeared and peppered his apartment with bath bombs and shoe racks and avocado-based breakfast smoothies—and, like, Ginny isn't Cho, and Cho isn't Ginny, but—Dolohov almost smiles now, and he's traded in his designer leather jackets for skin-tight grey v-necks that make him look way less like a serial killer, and he's, like, getting his shit together to teach ESL classes to underprivileged Russian immigrant youths or whatever, and—yeah, none of that is  _for_  Cho, obviously, but— 

Scabior's not jealous. 

He's not. 

He's just. 

He's  _tired_. 

He's tired of being a half-step behind everyone else, of showing up late and not understanding the dress code and missing the fucking memo and dealing with all of it alone; and he's tired of having no one to love but himself and not even being able to get  _that_  far because he's kind of a huge fucking loser, right, and he knows that, he's spent a lifetime fucking knowing that, but maybe—maybe it's time to try, anyway. 

He'd just always assumed that second chances weren't  _meant_  for people like him. High school dropouts with burner phones and shitty credit and dads who bailed the second they were legally allowed to. But maybe that isn't how it works. Maybe second chances aren't, like, coincidental or incidental or accidental or what the fuck  _ever_. 

Maybe he just has to ask for one. 

"So," he says, stopping next to Ginny and clearing his throat. 

She doesn't look surprised to see him, but she does curl her toes into the sand and restlessly tug the sleeves of her sweater down past her wrists and wait a while—a long while—to actually respond. He counts the seconds. Twenty-three. It's just—a number. He doesn't think there's any greater significance to it.  

"So," she eventually returns before falling silent. 

"So," Scabior repeats. "I know this guy. And he's...kind of a fucking idiot, right?" 

"Right," Ginny agrees immediately. "Kind of a fucking idiot." 

Scabior winces. "I— _he,_ this guy—he, uh, he might've figured his shit out, though." 

"Oh, yeah?" 

"And he's..." Scabior trails off. Shakes his head. He can fucking do this. He can. "Okay. I'm—I'm the guy. I'm the idiot." 

Ginny snorts, and then ducks her chin, and then presses her lips together like she's trying not to smile. " _Yeah_ , you are." 

"I'm sorry," he blurts out. 

Her almost-smile fades. "For what?" 

He pauses. There are  _so many things_ he still wants to say to her. Things like—he loves the color of her eyes, how they're sometimes green and sometimes brown and sometimes a kaleidoscopic swirl of both, and he loves how she kicks in her sleep and throws the remote when she watches football and hides cookie dough in his vegetable crisper because she knows he won't  _look_  there, and he loves the way she bites her bottom lip when he takes his shirt off, loves that she can't cook and never backs down and might just be as bad at reading between the lines as he is. 

"I'm sorry," he says slowly, carefully, "for not trusting you to mean it when you said you loved me." 

She goes still. "I haven't—I didn't say that to you, though. That I love you." 

He thinks about how she hadn't quite looked at him while murmuring  _'it was a good surprise'_  the night he'd taken her ice blocking—thinks about how fiercely she'd glared at her mother on his behalf the morning of that awful fucking breakfast—thinks about how she'd noticed his shitty mood in South Carolina, had dragged him off to play beer pong because, shit, that's how they'd  _met_ , that should be an awesome memory, that should be the  _best_  memory—and he knows she's wrong.  

"Yeah, Ginny," he says, finally reaching out for her, tugging her closer and threading their fingers together and skimming the pad of his thumb against the path of bare skin above her shorts. "You kind of did." 

She swallows. "Yeah," she whispers. "I guess I kind of did." 

"So," he says again. 

She holds his gaze. "So." 

He leans down, mouth graze her cheek, her ear, her jaw. "You wanna?" he asks, muffling the words against her neck. 

She shivers. "Isn't that my line?" 

"Not this time." 

"Oh." Her lips twitch. "Well, does it ever work? Your line?" 

"Mm," he says, and it's incredible, he thinks, how sure he is that he's exactly where he's supposed to be. "Only on you." 

 

* * *

 

(4:00 pm)  ** _man_**  

(4:01 pm)  ** _this kids a fucking disaster_**  

(4:03 pm) montague? 

(4:03 pm) or 

(4:03 pm) wait 

(4:03 pm) sorry 

(4:04 pm) "graham, like the cracker" 

(4:05 pm)  ** _lmao_**  

(4:05 pm)  ** _never forget_**  

(4:07 pm)  ** _but srsly_**  

(4:08 pm)  ** _he struck out w/ the waitress last nite and got so plastered he drooled like_**  

(4:08 pm)  ** _all over my fucking shoulder it was gross af_**  

(4:09 pm)  ** _ginny_** ** _took blackmail pix tho_**  

(4:09 pm)  ** _ginnys_**   ** _the best_**  

(4:10 pm) jesus 

(4:10 pm) whats his deal even 

(4:11 pm) did he tell you 

(4:12 pm)  ** _y would he tell me anything_**  

(4:14 pm) he likes you better 

(4:15 pm)  ** _no ur just like_**  

(4:15 pm)  ** _scary and big and shit_**  

(4:16 pm)  ** _and hes the harvard looking motherfucker who wore_** ** _cufflinks to a fucking dive bar_**  

(4:19 pm) that’s 

(4:20 pm) wow 

(4:24 pm)  ** _he also tried to stick his phone in the spinny drain thing_**  

(4:25 pm)  ** _like it_** ** _kpt_** ** _ringing_**  

(4:25 pm)  ** _and he was like_**  

(4:26 pm)  ** _rly mad about it or w/e_**  

(4:29 pm) the garbage disposal????? 

(4:29 pm)  ** _yeah that_**  

(4:30 pm) jesus 

(4:31 pm)  ** _told u man_**  

(4:31 pm)  ** _fucking disaster_**  

(4:31 pm) should we like 

(4:32 pm) do something 

(4:33 pm)  ** _idk_**  

(4:34 pm)  ** _he liked that waitress a lot_**  

(4:34 pm)  ** _we could like_**  

(4:34 pm) NO 

(4:35 pm)  ** _whaaaat_**  

(4:35 pm)  ** _y not_**  

(4:35 pm)  ** _were like experts on this shit now_**  

(4:37 pm) we are not playing matchmaker for fucking 

(4:37 pm) "graham, like the cracker" 

(4:40 pm)  ** _we COULD tho_**  

(4:40 pm)  ** _i_**   ** _bet cho would help me_**  

(4:45 pm) fuck you 

(4:46 pm)  ** _HA_**  

(4:46 pm)  ** _U KNO IM RITE_**  

(4:49 pm) don't take him back to that fucking bar 

(5:00 pm) scabior 

(5:03 pm) SCABIOR 

(5:30 pm) fuck 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> [come join me in hell](http://www.provocative-envy.tumblr.com)


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